


fill my lungs with sweetness (fill my head with you)

by sweaters (cuimhl)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, lapslock, self-indulgent character exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 17:25:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8293948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuimhl/pseuds/sweaters
Summary: yuuri and the ice have a tacit understanding.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry about this!! it just came out, and i did nothing to stop it.  
> literally nothing happens.
> 
> also, ice-skating terms make me sound pretentious, but i swear i actually know about them! this is completely self-indulgent. title from: bloom - The Paper Kites

the ice; yuuri never pretended to know anything that didn’t belong on the ice.

well, a lie - his bungled first kiss in third grade, at the insistence of a childish dare, proved as much. he’s pretended to be someone he’s not, before. someone who makes friends like the snowflakes that fall, someone who doesn’t fall asleep to the scrape of blades on ice and the whispering kiss of frost on his fingertips.

now, he knows better than to pretend. there’s no need to, anyway, when the ice pulls him into its embrace, more home than _home._

salchow, mohawk - the toe-pick of his blade catches, and he stumbles. soft transition, back spin, back crossover, yuuri stops.

it’s a lonely evening, seven in the PM with summer chasing sunset over the horizon. the crickets in hasetsu sound quieter, more subdued than the ones in detroit. there are so few residents here that even the noise of traffic is muted, a thickening blanket of silence as suffocating as it is warm; hot air births the blooming wildflowers on the side of the road, little blushing faces turned to the dim orange glow of the sun.

the rink is empty, just the way he likes it. yuuri runs his palm over the barrier on the edge of the rink, and listens to yuuko bustling around with the shelves of rental skates. she’ll let him lock up, today, if he pleads enough. absently, he grates the back of his blade against the ice, and squints to make out the scratch in the hazy lighting.

he’s causing trouble for the staff. they’ll have to resurface the ice again the next morning, but, he reminds himself with a smile, _the nishigori family is covering for me_. not for the first time, he berates himself for not feeling more grateful. but it's not like all the effort was enough to - 

the smile slips from his face when he sighs, closing his eyes and opening them again to the harsh whiteness of the rink. people with frozen hearts have no right to blame others, but he’s still blaming, attributing the loss at sochi to everything he possibly can. the bumpy seats on the plane to russia. the faulty lock on his hotel bathroom that almost gave him a heart attack, when his coach rushed in with the spare key card to remind him of the time.

 _time_. every minute, every hour and day he spent practising, but which he could have used just a little better, practised a little _harder_.

yuuri blinks, takes a deep breath, and kicks off. cold air sears his throat, the softest amber conflagration kindling to life in his lungs. in the end, he still belongs here best. three-turn, a bend at the knee, left toe-pick in the ice and -

he leaps, twists, carves a perfect curve from the ice and extends his left leg, a single toe-loop.

it’s a pity skating on river ice is a health hazard, because these processed surfaces are so soft. he had his blades sharpened just last week, and the ice parts like butter under his weight which, speaking of, he should lose.

it makes him smile; at least one thing hasn’t changed.

“yuuri,” yuuko calls for him. he turns, soft snow-plough towards the entrance of the rink, and lifts his gaze.

“i’ll,” she hesitates. her hair burns auburn and daring like a lick of flame, a brilliant halo amidst all the shadows in the darkening rink. she’s still beautiful, yuuri realises, wistful. he doesn’t wish he could have married her - god knows he still only has the emotional capacity and socialising prowess of a sulky child. but maybe he misses having her attention to himself.

“i’ll lock up,” he offers hopefully, cheekily. yuuko scrunches up her nose at him and smiles.

“okay,” she acquiesces in exasperation. “the keys are -”

“i know,” yuuri nods. “go home, eat your beau’s horrible cooking, or something.”

yuuko raises a brow. “are you sure you’ll be okay?”

the ice calls to him, singing in the warmth of the boots around his ankles, a thrill dancing under his skin. he wants to listen to it. he wants to forget his failure at the grand prix, the gentle acceptance and quiet pride on his mother’s face, even skating itself. giving into temptation will cure it, if only temporarily.

“i’m sure,” he promises. yuuko smiles, an unfathomable flash of sadness and sympathy that touches the corner of her lips, a hasty slapdash that she puts away before he can put his finger on the bitter taste. waving, she turns and walks away.

he glides forward slowly, thinking. he’s too tired to try a quad, and a triple sounds extravagant. he wants to be quiet. when he hears the front door to the arena click closed, he inhales and leans forward, gathering speed. outside three-turn, glide. crossover, crossover, crossover - he turns, arches his shoulders inwards and winds himself up like a toy, one of those plastic ballerinas with too-thick thighs and a rounded gut (yuuri smiles, despite himself).

the unwinding is easy but dizzyingly fast, and he’s so lost in the feeling of the ice beneath his blade that his leg almost slips from underneath him. carefully, he inches his right leg up until he figures it’s perpendicular to his left, and relaxes.

camel spins give him vertigo. it’s still nice, though. he closes his eyes against the harsh whip of cold air tossing his hair into his face, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

if you can keep a secret: he’s always thought he was better at spinning. every skater has something they prefer, between spins and jumps. the two-foot spin came so easily to him, not quite like breathing but close enough. the waltz jump gave him a headache, however. outside edge, just enough toe so as not to slip over, a moment airborne and then the click of the toe-pick carving out a messy landing, _again_.

he’s good at both, though. he wouldn’t be a top-notch skater if he couldn’t jump.

but viktor - yuuri is sure that viktor is better at spins, too. it’s a mostly unfounded estimation, fairly contentious, too, given that his idol’s signature move is a quadruple flip, but yuuri is _sure._ maybe his idol worship looks vanilla and shallow to many, but he’s felt that deeper connection for a long time.

anyway, jumps look more impressive. it’s important for the judges to know that the contestants are capable of spinning well, but what really racks up points are the jumps. so it’s nice, yuuri thinks, to be able to keep spinning to himself. he’s hollowed out a little alcove in his heart for the cut and bite of brisk wind against his cheek, the intoxicating disorientation of the rink rushing by in front of his eyes.

no one has to see this, see into his heart: find that miniscule home he’s patched up with memories of spinning, and taste the drowsiness of forgetting everything between the scratch of ice under his blade and the momentum that tousles his hair.

he doesn’t have to be anyone, here. it’s just the ice, the darkness, and katsuki yuuri. the world rights itself subtly when truths are in balance, and the one truth he needs to know is that of the ice. it does sing, just not for the people to hear - in the silence, broken and chipped away by the grating of his blade, the ice hums.


End file.
